


1971.

by shingekinoboyfriends



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Homeless Jughead, Murder Mystery, Slow Burn, so many feels, that one fic where jughead goes to jazzercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shingekinoboyfriends/pseuds/shingekinoboyfriends
Summary: The year that sparked the digital age, the birth of Greenpeace, and the rise of jazzercise. Currently living in the YMCA and working as a freelance photojournalist, Jughead Jones is fairly certain that things could be a lot worse. But when he witnesses a bombing at an anti-war rally, he thinks he might like to retract that statement... Enter Betty Cooper, a college student with aspirations of becoming a hard-hitting journalist, who might be able to help figure out who was behind the bombing. Teaming up comes naturally - what happens after, neither of them are expecting.





	1. It Don't Come Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! So, here's the scoop: this fic is a lot different than anything Katie and I have ever written, but it's got all the things we love at the heart of it, which is two precious characters and a whole lot of slow burn pining romantic goodness. There's just also a little murder thrown in there. :~)
> 
> So, just FYI, here is how this fic is going to go: the chapters in this fic will alternate between Jughead and Betty's POVs. Annie (aka: me) is going to write the Jughead chapters, and Katie is going to write the Betty chapters! So, Jughead chapters are all going to be odd, Betty's will all be even! I promise it's not as complicated as it sounds.
> 
> Also, it's important to note that we started planning this fic after S1E7, so if there's any inconsistencies later on down the road, we didn't know any better haha.
> 
> Anyway – now that that's all out of the way, please enjoy!! c:>

Something strange happens when you dream a memory.

I wouldn’t call having one lucid or anything. It’s just, I think a part of your brain starts recognizing it while the memory is playing, and depending on what kind of memory it is, your dream starts to take on a certain feeling. I don’t know if everybody experiences this, or if I’m just some conundrum basket case.

In my own experience, the feeling comes to me as a color; the memory dream usually has some sort of tint to it that makes me feel one way or the other. For example, whenever I dream a memory red, it’s usually connected to anger, or fear. Yellow dreams are always happy, usually involving trivial moments from my childhood. Whenever my dreams come to me in blue, it doesn’t mean it’s a sad memory. It’s calm.

Blue reminds me of the beach, of the photo I’ve got stashed under my pillow of the last trip I took with my family. The last trip we all took together.

It was the last dream I had. Blue sky, yellow sun. I remember walking beside my dad, nine years old. In the dream, I could feel my toes in the sand, smell the salt in the breeze that rolled off the coast. Dad nudged my shoulder as we got to the shoreline, and without a thought, I jumped right in. (There is something to be said about experiencing life as a child. It’s like they can taste it.)

In the dream, I find myself underneath a beach umbrella, beside my mother and baby sister. Jellybean. She was always the best part of our family. Jellybean was the innocent one, the one we had to protect. At least, Mom and I always thought so. I dream the memory of when I buried her in the sand up to her neck, and as the grains trickled down her chest to collect at the base of her chubby neck, she giggled loudly.

We ate sandwiches and chips in the warm summer air and by the end of the day, the beach had left traces of itself all over us; in our sunburned cheeks, in our dampened hair, in the grit that clung to every crevice. I slept on the car ride home, the windows of the old Plymouth rolled down so that the wind whipped through our hair.

Blue sky, yellow sun. Sometimes it’s hard to remember.

 

* * *

 

I wake up in the morning to the sound of the alarm clock beside my head, which is as insufferable as the room is stuffy. In the laundry room, there are no windows – just a few rows of washers and dryers, stacks upon stacks of folded towels, and shelves that hold the cheapest detergent the YMCA can afford.

Yeah, you read that right: I’m currently sleeping at the Y. Of course, by “sleeping at” I actually mean squatting, and by “currently,” I mean… Well, I’ve been staying here for about a year.

It’s really not as bad as it sounds.

I reach over and shut the alarm off, then force myself to sit upright. If this were a Hollywood picture, there’d no doubt be some corny music setting me up for another crumby day in Riverdale (read: Hell).

I stretch my arms wide above my head, letting out a loud yawn. My back doesn’t hurt so much from lying on the ground anymore. I kind of don’t mind it, not really. The blankets I’ve been lying on all night go in the washer and I grab an open box of detergent from the shelf, pour it in and let the thing run. Then I hit the showers; there’s a locker room kiddie-corner to the room where I usually stay, which makes sneaking in just a little bit easier, and far less noticeable. I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and then I dart back to the laundry room to pack up all of my things. Everything I own goes in an army green bag that I stuff behind a shelving unit, which I’ll come back for later tonight before the Y closes. I always have to make sure I’m back before closing time, otherwise I’ll get locked out.

I am the proverbial gym rat.

I’d argue that for the price I pay in membership, I’m just getting my money’s worth.

The reason I can make this work is that I’ve got the timing down to a science. Each day I set the alarm for 7:37, go through the motions of my every-morning routine, and by the time I’m sneaking out the back door, the alarms are all shut off thanks to a long-running streak of on-time employees. (Clock-in is at eight.)

There’s only a few things I actually carry with me outside the Y. Things I can’t live without. As I’m pulling my sneakers on, my eyes land on my wallet, camera and beanie, sitting on top of one of the dryers. I finish with my laces, sling the strap over my shoulder, shove the wallet in my back pocket, pull the cap on my head so as to achieve the ultimate head of flattened hat hair, and then I’m out.

The air outside is hot, muggy. It’s not the same heat as in the dream, and the blue-gray sky blanketing Riverdale is a far cry from the cerulean breaching the ocean’s horizon. I don’t think about it too long, though; things like that tend to bum me out, and I don’t need any more bumming. Archie says I’ve got enough of that as it is.

Anyway, I’ve got places to be.

 

* * *

 

 

I walk briskly into the Riverdale Tribune office with a thin paper sheath under my arm. Meier Photo Co.’s logo is printed thickly on the paper and subconsciously, I run my fingers along the marking’s ridges. The woman at the front desk nods to me once – no introduction necessary at this point – and I nod back at her. The Tribune editor’s office is situated at the back of the building, and I weave a path through the throng of desks and cubicles to the office of Mr. James Richards IV. On my way, I meet the eyes of a few writers that I’ve seen here before. They all nod at me, but I can see the panic in their eyes. People here go nuts around paper deadlines.

At Richards’ office door, I knock twice on the frosted glass before letting myself in, closing it behind me with a slight click.

I turn around. The man with slicked-back graying hair has deep-set bags under his eyes, and in his left hand he holds a cup of steaming coffee. The guy looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, but then again, he always does. Maybe he actually doesn’t, and is somehow the only middle-aged man able to hold down a job that requires you be physically and mentally present 24 hours daily.

For a moment I stand in front of him, not saying a word. He doesn’t look up from the explosion of stationery and sticky notes consuming his desk. When I finally clear my throat, Richards interjects, cutting off any awkward introduction I may have spouted.

“Jones. What can I do for you.” He never says anything like a question, even if he means it that way. I think it’s intentional.

“Pictures of the rally on Main, Wednesday, June 24. Got some others from the war protest on Fifth last night.”

“Can’t use the ones from Main,” he says simply. Then he leans back in his desk chair, heaves a sigh, and fishes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket. It lights up a candy red at the tip, and from his mouth spills a stream of smoke, like automobile exhaust. “Let’s see the ones from Fifth.”

I don’t let him see the disappointment in my face, and out of habit, my palms find the back of my hat, pulling my cap down tighter around my head. I’m used to being turned down entirely by other publications, so I should be grateful the Tribune’s willing to throw me a bone. (That’s subtext.) I pull the requested photos out of the bag and slide them across the table to Richards, where he looks at them with half-open lids – eyes like slits, tongue flickering out of his mouth to wet his chapped lips.

“Not bad,” he decides after a few quiet moments. I feel the knot in my stomach letting out, loosening. “I can take these four. Let May know on your way out and she’ll write you up a check.” He tosses them to the corner of his desk and takes a drag of his smoke; the cloud pouring from his mouth moves to push me back out the door. He then picks the unwanted pictures from the mess and nonchalantly offers them back to me.

James Richards IV certainly is the pinnacle of hospitality.

“A pleasure as always, Mr. Richards,” I tell him politely, fighting down my irritation and plucking the unwanted photographs from his fingers. I say it like a joke, even though I don’t mean it. (Well, not entirely, but sometimes I just can’t hold my tongue.)

He narrows his eyes up at me again, silently passing judgement on whether or not to say something about my smart mouth, but I take a showman’s bow before he can decide and let myself out of his office without another word.

This is the way it goes: I take about forty photos, and I’m lucky to sell four. Hence the luxurious living arrangements I’ve made for myself on the YMCA’s laundry room floor.

Sometimes I think I got myself into the wrong business, but ethically, I’m aces. After all, somebody’s got to document history – I just wish it paid a little better.

 

* * *

 

On Fridays, we meet at Pop’s.

I get there early just to listen to the songs they play overhead. I wouldn’t ever admit to anyone, but part of me liked the songs they played. Old 50s pop songs, the kind of music I used to hear as a kid, stuff my folks played in the house. I think that’s why I like it so much. Nostalgia has a way of making you long for it, while simultaneously wishing you could escape it, wishing you would never have to experience it again. Either way, I somehow always seem to find myself listening for it at Pop’s.

I doodle on napkins in the booth that the staff knows is ours. They always sit us there, and being two unassuming just-turned-21-year-olds, we don’t question it. We never have.

There used to be more of us, back when we were kids. A lot of them moved away, or got drafted… and now it’s just Archie and me.

I’m doodling the Led Zeppelin logo when the chimes on the door handle ring life into the building, cutting through the air like a jetstream. My eyes flicker upward, and at once, they widen at the familiar head of red hair making its grand entrance.

“How’s it goin’, Jug?” Archie greets, clapping a hand on the tabletop before sliding into the booth across from me. He glances down at the napkin situated beneath my ballpoint pen, and I instinctively fold it up, tucking it away behind the ketchup and mustard. “You been here long?” he asks, glancing down quickly at his wristwatch to make sure he hadn’t miscalculated the time.

“It’s fine,” I tell him honestly. “Got here early. In all honesty, the allure of this fine establishment was simply too much to resist.”

Archie snorts. “We come here every week.”

“I’m not sure what your point is.”

He laughs out loud at that.

When the waitress comes over, we put in our order, exactly what we always get: two double cheeseburgers each with extra everything, a plate of fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

“Still can’t believe you can stomach all that,” Archie tells me after the waitress heads to the kitchen.

Thing is, Archie’s right. I honestly don’t know where I put it either. My stomach’s a dark abyss. On the other hand, I know exactly where Archie puts it; we used to be the same size when we were in high school, but toward the end and immediately after, he started doing construction work for his dad during the summertime and beefed up. If we were dishes, I would be the meatloaf and Archie would be the Hoffman’s Gain Weight Hi-Proteen Powder.

Archie had played sports in high school. I was just the weird kid who he became friends with early enough that even when we started growing in different directions after grade school, we still stuck around one another. To be honest, I don’t know who I’d be without Archie.

I tear open the straw wrapper for the milkshake once they get to our table and crumple it into a little ball, then chuck it at Archie. His reflexes are good though, and he catches it in the palm of his hand before it hits him between the eyes. He squints tightly at me and throws it right back. My reflexes, in comparison, are… well, to be perfectly honest, abysmal. (Probably dates back to the failed hand-eye coordination tests that made me last-pick in gym class all through high school.)

I get hit on the bridge of my nose.

“I’ll get you one of these days, Andrews,” I swear.

“Not likely.”

I’m silent for a moment before conceding. He’s probably right.

(In reality, it goes deeper than just hand-eye coordination – something about living in his shadow since the fifth grade. The timing of a powerful growth spurt and puberty rate of young boys is weirdly determinable of the rest of their lives.)

“What do you have going on tonight?” I ask him, sucking hard on the straw. The shakes at Pop’s are always too thick to drink right away, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try it at least once, every single time.

Archie tries slurping his shake too, but just manages to collapse the width of his straw instead. “Meeting Valerie at the drive-in.”

“Valerie… is she that Pussycat?”

“Yeah, the one I met at the record shop. She’s cool.” That’s where Archie works during the school year – Georgie’s Records.

I nod. “Gravy.” Archie’s been hanging out with her a lot lately from the sounds of it. I haven’t asked them if they’re going together, but who knows with Archie. With him, it seems like it changes every week.

Archie never asks me if I’m going with anyone, for the opposite reason I don’t ask him. With me, there’s no one. I roll alone. It’s what’s always made sense to me anyway; Archie’s the only one who has hung around for as long as he has and part of me thinks it’ll always be that way. Dad told me once it’s because he felt sorry for me. I don’t put too much stock in what Dad says these days.

When our food comes, Archie asks me about work.

“It’s casual,” I say, shoveling French fry after French fry into my gob. “Doing some work tonight actually.”

“Shooting pictures still?”

I nod, taking a drink.

“You know, I heard from Josie that there’s a rally tonight. Lot of students organizing a protest near City Hall. Maybe you could check that out.” He takes a giant bite of his burger so that his cheeks fill up, like a human-sized ginger squirrel.

I have to really try not to roll my eyes. “Yeah, I know about it… that’s the work I was talking about, what I have to do tonight.”

Archie laughs, mouth full of burger and bun. “Oh. Duh. You would know about that before I would…”

I don’t say anything, just pretend I didn’t hear him. The truth is that, yeah, I _would_ know about it before him. Archie’s a good guy, and a stand-up friend, but at the end of the day, if you’re looking for his political or ethical stance on anything, he won’t give it to you – let alone show up to a protest. He’s a friend who is kind, but a friend who would never show his face somewhere like that. I don’t know if it’s that he doesn’t care, or that he just doesn’t understand it. (I think it’s the latter.) Regardless… It’d just be nice to know someone who gets it. To talk to someone that understands how pivotal these events are, these tumultuous world events that are happening _right now,_ and for that someone to actually give a damn about it.

Archie has just never been that guy. And he never will be.

This is something I try not to hold against him, because I know it’s something he’ll probably never change.

“What are you seeing at the drive-in tonight?” I ask him instead, and when I do, he lights up.

I suppose I’ll settle for this.

 

* * *

 

At around nine o’clock, the protest I’ve come by to shoot is in full-effect. The whole lawn in front of Riverdale’s City Hall is chock-full of high schoolers and college students, and even a few adults that care enough to physically support it. All around me, people are singing, chanting, screaming, and when I close my eyes and listen, the noises sound like a singular pained chorus.

Camera in hand, I start taking pictures. People with signs portraying Uncle Sam, beaten and bandaged, crying: “I want out,” and others simply stating: “Amerika is devouring its children” are everywhere, and it seems that everyone here has a stake in hand. Everyone’s voice fights to be heard, while the lights inside City Hall stay unchangingly aglow.

My lens focuses on a guy nearby whom I recognize, someone I went to high school with; it takes me a minute before I can place him as Jason Blossom. He’s exactly kind of guy I’d never think would show up to something like this, the kind of guy who used to make fun of me for being skinny and sad all the time my freshman year. Guys like the rich and privileged Jason Blossom didn’t understand anything besides their trust funds. At least, that’s what I’d thought.

I can hear him; he’s screaming about peace, about patriotism, and whose son will be next. There’s fear and sadness in his voice – something that all men feel, especially at our age. Those of us who stand at this rally are some of the few left, but who knows when the letter will show up somewhere with our names on it, taking us, too? And who can say when this will end?

Oddly enough, I feel closer to this version of Jason Blossom than I ever have. Through my camera lens, I snap a photo of him, his face warming toward the color of his hair, and even in the low light of dusk, I can feel his passion burning. A match.

Physically, I have to tear myself away. I pull my camera away from my eyes, watch him for a moment longer, then turn away. Something proud glows in my stomach… Makes me wonder if people can change.

I think about Dad. I wonder if we’ll ever see Mom and Jellybean again.

Wandering, I take photos of those I pass, wondering if this protest will make a difference – if it will bring the war any closer to ending, if the boys who were taken from their mothers will come home, if the violence will at once be realized. As I photograph a young girl sitting upon her mother’s shoulders, chanting words she may not even understand in time with the chanting of this small rebellion, I think: _This has to mean something._

It’s only just as I’ve made my way to the back of the crowd to get a wide-angle shot of the scene that the bomb goes off.

There’s a flash, white and red and hot. A loud crash that leaves my ears ringing, a sound that nearly knocks me to the ground. In my peripheral vision I see people falling to their knees, and before the screaming starts, the eyes of every living person in the square fix on the stairs. With a loud whoosh, the fire sparks an ignition, claiming the darkness; the crash of color engulfs, incinerates, consumes.

There is no apology.

And it isn’t until the brightness’ intensity momentarily diminishes that we all see the bodies claimed in the inferno.

My heart stops.

In this moment, there is a union of sobbing and shrill cries, when those licked by the flames go running, skin burning and turning to ash before our eyes. It’s the ones who don’t run that stop time, though; I forget, for so long, that I must breathe. Even longer before I remember the camera in my hands, and with shaking fingers I bring it to my eyes. _Click._

I don’t believe what I’m seeing. I _can’t_ believe it – because I know.

There, at the center of the explosion, lies a boy with hair as red as the flames that lick the sky. The body of a boy I used to know.


	2. Rainy Days and Mondays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Just to clarify before you start reading, this chapter is in Betty's point of view! Hope you like it! (:

“Betty! Hurry up and eat some breakfast before you go!”

 

“Be up in a minute!” I call back, turning back to the dryer in front of me. It only takes me another minute to fold the last of my now clean clothes, placing them neatly back into my hamper to take back home with me later today.

 

I grab the handles of the hamper and start for the stairs, pausing as I pass by the shelves full of storage. Everything is neatly put away in boxes, but one in particular catches my attention. ‘POLLY’ is written neatly in black sharpie across the logo. For a moment, I consider opening it and looking inside, but I decide against it, if only to avoid that crushing sadness that fills me whenever I think of my sister.

 

Balancing my hamper on my knee and with one hand, I reach the other up to gently run my fingers over her name, written so neatly in my mother’s handwriting. Dust gathers at my fingertips, and I frown.

 

Time’s supposed to heal all wounds or something like that, right?

 

“Betty!” Mom calls from upstairs, her voice high and impatient.

 

“Coming!” I reply loudly, taking one last longing glance at the old box before carrying my hamper up the stairs and setting it down by the front door, next to my suede loafers.

 

My back bumps against the shelf behind me and I turn quickly, watching as a vase tips over and falls to the ground before I can catch it. Luckily, it lands on the plush shag carpet and doesn’t break, so I quickly pick it up to place it back before my parents see that I almost broke one of their most prized possessions.

 

Apparently, it was an heirloom from my great, great grandpa, or something like that. It’s a marbled vase with a black engraved pattern on it, which matches with all kinds of family things that have been passed down. Like a family crest.

 

Once I place the vase safely back on the shelf, I take a seat at the table, across from Dad who has the daily newspaper open in front of him. The headline reads ‘DEATH TOLL FROM BOMB RISES TO 5’ in big, blocky letters.

 

“Still seems surreal that something like that happened in Riverdale,” I say as Mom sets a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast in front of me. She fills an empty glass with orange juice and then disappears into the kitchen again to fix herself and Dad plates.

 

“Very tragic, indeed,” Dad says, folding the paper back up and setting it aside as Mom brings out his breakfast. “I’m glad that you weren’t there. I heard that quite a few people were injured.”

 

I nod slowly, chewing on a piece of bacon. “A few people that I go to school with were there, but all of them are okay, thankfully,” I inform him and he smiles, picking up his fork to start eating.

 

Except Jason Blossom. He died.

 

“Yes, well,” Mom says as she sits down at the table with her breakfast, “it was a truly tragic event for our town.”

 

I glance at the clock and see that it’s practically 8 o’clock. I quickly eat as much as I can, drinking about half of my orange juice before grabbing a piece of toast to take with me on the road. I rush to the door, picking up my car keys, purse and hamper and calling out a quick goodbye over my shoulder as I head out.

 

I put my hamper in the backseat of my yellow Cortina and then get behind the wheel, putting on sunglasses to block the bright sun and pushing the Beatles cassette tape in. Archie had let me borrow it the last time I’d seen him a couple of months ago, telling me how it was a band that would “change my life.”

 

While it didn’t really have that much of an impact on me, the music wasn’t bad. Plus, I didn’t really have many other tapes, and I’d gotten bored of most of them already.

 

I finish my piece of toast before I pull into the parking lot of Riverdale Times, the dominant newspaper for our town. I park my car, shut it off and grab my purse before getting out and heading for the front doors, passing by several co-workers outside on their smoke break.

 

I stop by the break room on my way in, making a fresh cup of coffee before heading for the editor in chief’s office. The entire room is paneled with orange shag carpet, and he’s sitting behind his desk, looking over several papers in front of him. I knock on the doorway, catching his attention, and he puts his cigarette out in his ashtray, motioning me forward.

 

“I made you’re a fresh cup of coffee,” I offer, setting it down at his desk before taking a seat in the chair facing his desk. His name plate reads ‘RANDY FRANKLIN’ in gold.

 

Randy shuffles a few pieces of papers around, searching for the one I turned in last night, taking a sip of coffee. “Ah,” he says, “here it is.”

 

“What did you think?” I ask curiously, leaning forward slightly, waiting to hear his answer. Being the only woman writer in the building has me on the edge of my seat constantly, trying to keep up with edits, new material and making sure my writing is adequate enough to publish.

 

Since I got the job last Fall, I’d been promoted from secretary to editor, to staff writer. Randy liked my take on things, but said that at the moment, there wasn’t room on his staff for the kind of writing I wanted to do, but assured me that in a few months time, I would be promoted again. For now, I’m writing a review column every week – on the latest music, movies and books. It’s mundane and boring, but I remind myself that I’m working with the best in the business.

 

After all, I have to start somewhere.

 

Randy folds his hands on his desk and looks at me. “Betty, your writing is good,” he starts, and I nod, unable to hide my smile at the compliment. “But… this just isn’t the kind of content I want in the paper.”

 

“Josie and the Pussycats are a local band,” I inform him, feeling a little confused. “They were a hit when they played at that rally last week.”

 

“Right, I’m sure they were,” he says, his tone slightly sympathetic. “But if you wanna review a band like that, how about that group – what are they called again? The Supremes? How about writing on a group like that instead?”

 

I blink a few times, unable to form a proper response.

 

“Listen, you’ve got talent, kiddo,” Randy says, picking up his cigarette to take a long drag before blowing smoke out in my direction. “But this paper has a reputation to uphold. I need the right kind of content, and this just isn’t going to cut it.”

 

I bite my tongue, not wanting to complain. He doesn’t know how many late nights I put into that piece. How, despite the fact that reviewing music isn’t what I want to be writing about, I put my heart and soul into it. How I interviewed at least a dozen people in the crowd at the rally about the music, how I even interviewed Josie, Valerie and Melody…

 

“Of course, sir,” I say, standing up to take my story back from him. I try not to look discouraged at all the red pen marks that show the amount of editing I would need to do to fix the story.

 

I’m about to leave his office when I stop and slowly turn around. “Mr. Franklin?” He looks up from the papers again at me, his eyebrows raised in a questioning manner. I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to dig my nails into the palm of my hands the way I always do when I’m nervous. “About the bombing yesterday… I was wondering if I might work on that piece.”

 

“Sorry little lady,” Randy says, and I can feel my heart sinking already. “I already gave that piece to someone else.”

 

* * *

 

By late afternoon, when I finish all my work for the paper, I say my goodbyes to my colleagues (who stack all their rough drafts on top of my stack of work to bring home) and head out the doors. Despite how hot and sunny it was this morning, it’s a heavy downpour now. That kind of summer rain that’s fat droplets that make sure to soak you to the bone, even just during the 5 seconds it takes to run from the doors to the car.

 

I set my bag and folders down in the front seat of my car and start the engine, kicking the windshield wipers on. Despite the rain, it’s somehow still sunny and the leather seats of my car are painfully warm.

 

The drive from Riverdale Times to my apartment only takes about 10 minutes, and that’s because I really take my time driving and listening to music. Riverdale is pretty small, so to get from one side of the town to the other probably would only take 15 minutes. But I like to drive by the old historic houses on my way home, since it’s more of the scenic route.

 

My apartment building isn’t anything too special. It’s got ivy growing up the length of the building and the bricks could use some TLC, but it’s home. Well, it _feels_ more like home than my parents house does anymore, anyway.

 

Our apartment is on the third floor, so I haul my laundry hamper and stack of paperwork to edit through later up three flights of stairs, having to stop for little breaks twice, before reaching the door. I don’t bother trying to fish my key out of my purse, and just settle for kicking the door while trying to balance everything in my hands.

 

“Oh my god,” Veronica says as she opens the door and I stumble in. “Let me help you!”

 

She grabs the stacks of paperwork from under my arm (leave it to Veronica to take the smallest job and make a big deal out of it) and sets it on the kitchen table while I carry my hamper to my room, setting it down right by the door. I drop my purse to the floor and go sit down on the couch in the living room for a minute, feeling drained from the long day, the rain and having to carry a bunch of stuff up three flights of stairs.

 

“People on the first floor don’t realize how easy they have it,” I say as I hug a pillow and lay down for a minute. “Phew. I’m beat.”

 

Veronica comes over to sit down on the coffee table, facing me. “Well, look at the bright side,” she says in her bright and cheerful tone that clearly says _I didn’t have to work today haha_ , “at least you have clean clothes!”

 

I purse my lips. “That’s true.”

 

“And you didn’t have to pay to clean them,” she adds and I make a face.

 

“I did pay,” I say dramatically, “with my time and soul.”

 

Veronica laughs. “Your parents aren’t _that_ bad, Bets. They’re just… overprotective.”

 

I roll my eyes and sit back up, tightening my pony tail. “You look nice. Going out tonight?” I ask, changing the topic. Ever since I moved out, there’s even more of a rift between me and my parents, and it’s not something I enjoy thinking or talking about. Especially since Veronica’s mom is so nice and understanding (for the most part).

 

Veronica grins and hides herself behind her shoulder slightly, trying to act cute and innocent. “I may have a date,” she tells me and I raise my eyebrows, acting fake surprised. It’s not like we don’t share a landline phone that she was always busy on, talking to some mystery person at all kinds of weird hours of the night. “Anyway, it’s still new and I’m not sure what’s going to happen yet. But he’s really nice and we’re going out for dinner and then to the drive-in for a movie.”

 

“Sounds great, Ronnie,” I tell her and she smiles, squealing as she gets up.

 

“Okay, I’m just going to fix up my makeup and get dressed and be good to go!” She rushes down the hall of our apartment to the bathroom to finish getting ready. “Oh, did you want me to bring you home something from Pop’s for later? We don’t have much to eat here.”

 

“No, thanks,” I call back as I yawn, leaning my head back against the couch. “I might be out tonight, too.”

 

“Oh, really?” Veronica steps out of the bathroom to look at me, a curler rolled up in her bangs. “Hot date?”

 

I almost laugh, but my reason for going out isn’t one of happiness or excitement. “No, I’m going to visit Polly.”

 

Veronica frowns, knowing what I mean. While she finishes getting ready, I go to my room and put all my clean, neatly folded clothes away in my dresser. Once that’s done, Veronica is heading out the door, shouting a goodbye on her way out.

 

It’s been like this since last Fall, when both of us started our junior year at college. Being on different paths meant hardly seeing each other, and even though we live together, it’s rare that we get to eat our meals together or go out together. Especially since Veronica is always busy going on dates or out with co-workers.

 

I’m not really complaining. It’s not too bad. Since I have the apartment to myself so often, I rarely have to wear a bra.

 

I gather my purse and car keys and brave the rainy weather again (this time equipped with an umbrella) and make my way to my car. The drive from Riverdale to Polly’s new house isn’t short by any means – most likely in the rainy weather, it would take almost two hours to get there. But it had to be done.

 

As far as I knew, Polly wasn’t aware of Jason’s untimely death. And what’s worse is that I’m the only one that she’s still connected with to tell her.

 

My heart feels heavy the entire drive. So heavy that even The Beatles can’t bring me back up.

 

The rain lets up outside of Riverdale, and the rest of my drive is relatively clear skies and a pretty, orange sunset. Where Polly lives now it’s all countryside – green grass, tall trees, and lakes with people swimming and fishing in. It’s a much prettier scene than Riverdale, but at the same time, I think I would hate living so far away from everything. At least in Riverdale, I can walk to Pop’s anytime I want.

 

I arrive at Polly’s house sometime after 7 o’clock. It’s a very small, robin egg blue colored house, with a cherry red front door and window shutters on the windows. There’s a small garden out front, which I know was Polly’s doing.

 

I park my car and get out, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I make my way up the pathway to the front door. Knocking softly, I wait until the door opens, just slightly.

 

“Polly?” I ask, leaning toward the door. It swings open and reveals my sister, healthy and happy and very pregnant. She grins and wraps her arms around me in a tight embrace, pulling me into the house and shutting the door behind me.

 

“Betty! I didn’t know you were coming to visit,” she says happily as I take my loafers off and leave them by the door. “Come in! How was the drive?”

 

“Oh it was fine,” I tell her, following her into the kitchen. We pass through the front room, which has a simple sofa and small coffee table, to the kitchen which has floral wallpaper that looks old and dusty and old, wooden cabinets. “The house looks nice.”

 

Polly smiles, motioning for me to sit down at the small dining table with only two seats set up. “It’s coming along,” she replies, one hand subconsciously rubbing her pregnant belly. “Jason’s suppose to bring home fresh paint to fix up these cabinets. I’m thinking making them white would really brighten up this kitchen.”

 

She makes me a fresh cup of tea and sits down in the other chair across from me with her own. For a moment, I stare at the cup, wondering how I’m supposed to break this news to her.

 

There will be no fresh paint for the cabinets.

 

“Polly…” I start, reaching forward for her hands, wondering how I’m supposed to word this to hurt a little less. “About Jason…”

 

Polly’s eyes narrow, and she leans a little closer to me, too. “What’s the matter? Did something happen?” she asks, her eyebrows pulling together in worry.

 

I squeeze her hands, wishing that I didn’t have to say the words out loud.

 

“I’m so sorry, Polly,” I manage before she takes her hands away from me and stands up from the table. “There was a bomb that went off at an anti-war rally in Riverdale. No one really knows what happened yet. Jason was there…”

 

Polly covered her mouth with her hand, tears rolling down her cheeks as she turned to face me again. “It was probably that damn cult that did it!” she shouted, covering her mouth again to try and control her voice.

 

“Cult?” I ask, dumbfounded. “What cult?”

 

Polly closes her eyes and puts her hands over her bump. I stand up, worried that she’s about to go into labor from the terrible news that I brought, but she manages to get her breathing under control. I wrap my arms around her tightly, comforting her as best I can.

 

“I’m so sorry, Polly,” I whisper gently, and she nods, letting a few more tears spill over her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Polly doesn’t speak again for a long time, but she does make these terrible gasping sobs that shake her entire body. I hold her tightly, resting my cheek against her shoulder, doing the best that I can to hold her together. It’s a full half hour before she runs out of tears, but she continues to make those gasping sounds for a little longer.

 

Once she’s sort of gone numb from crying, she sits back down at the table, her eyes staring ahead blindly, unable to focus on anything in particular.

 

“It was those people,” she said, her voice shaky and low.

 

“Who, Polly?” I ask, kneeling in front of her to hold her hands and try to figure out what she’s saying.

 

“All Jason told me was that there was this cult, and that we had to leave Riverdale,” she whispered, resting one of her hands on her forehead to cover her eyes, which were wet with new tears. “He said we had to leave or something bad could happen.”

 

“What?” is the only response I can come up with.

 

A cult in Riverdale? That sounds so… unlikely. And yet, there was a bomb incident, and there have been more and more anti-war rallies since the Vietnam War and draft started. Could there really be a cult behind the death of Jason Blossom, though?

 

“I just… I need to lay down,” Polly says softly, and I help her to her feet and walk her to her room where she lays down and hugs her pillow close to her chest.

 

“What am I supposed to do?” she whispers, closing her eyes. My heart sinks.

 

Having a baby is difficult enough, but having a baby by yourself, completely cut off from your parents and friends back home… I wonder how someone as wonderful as my sister could be given such an impossible situation. A situation that was already difficult enough when she had Jason by her side to help her.

 

My heart feels heavy again, and I wish for Jason Blossom to miraculously walk through the front door and tell us it was all just a bad dream.

 

I tuck her in and set a box of Kleenex beside her to quell her tears as they come. I do the dishes for her and clean the place up a bit with the few cleaning supplies she has in her cabinet to keep busy, my thoughts whirling around about what she’d said earlier about the cult.

 

Once her kitchen is as clean as it could possibly be, I hesitate at her bedroom door, seeing her sleeping with a handful of tissues clutched to her chest. Beside her bed is a framed picture of her and Jason from Prom their senior year of high school. It’s a picture that I took outside of the dance, since mom and dad didn’t want them doing pictures at our house since they were in the middle of a remodeling project.

 

Next to that picture is a framed picture of me and her, embracing each other, cheek to cheek. That one is more recent, taken just a few months ago.

 

I end up making a bed on the couch, laying down and reading over the materials that need to be edited before being published in the newspaper this upcoming week. With my favorite red ink pen in one hand, I start going through the various stories that Randy picked out for the issue himself.

 

Then I land on the article about the bombing incident.

 

_The tragic death of Jason Blossom…_

 

I read through the article, hardly able to keep my fingernails from digging into the soft pads of my hands in frustration. The article goes on to say that the “freak accident” harmed many, but most tragically, ended with the death of “one of Riverdale’s rising stars, Jason Blossom, among others.”

 

_Among others? Freak accident?_

 

I can’t believe what I’m reading, can’t believe that this is what will be published in the issue this week. It was a terrorist attack at an anti-war rally, not a freak accident. Jason Blossom was one of 5 people that died, not to mention the almost two dozen that were injured, some critically.

 

Where’s the news about the police investigation? What are the leads? _Who_ is responsible for this horrible event in the history of our town?

 

I crumple the piece of paper up and toss it away, angry and irritated and _sad_. This isn’t journalism, it’s tabloid trash.

 

When you realize that you can’t rely on the newspaper for facts, who can you trust to tell the truth?


	3. I Feel the Earth Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Jughead's POV - and finally, they meet. c:> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I did writing it! The feels are strong, friends...

There’s going to be a vigil Sunday evening at seven o’clock. I know this, and I know I’m expected to document it – but something about going feels strange, like an out-of-body experience. 

 

I saw their bodies, blown away by the blast of the bomb, my ears ringing, breath catching. I saw them all lying there, blackened, their skin like tar. I witnessed an act of terrorism.

 

I can’t stop thinking about it. 

 

I’m sitting on a bench in Riverside Park, killing time before I have to turn in for closing time at the Y. The sun is going down and the whole sky is lit up a warm red; everywhere I look are traces of that burning, of Jason’s red hair like fire.

 

That night, as soon as the blast had gone off, I’d begun to try and document it, to the best of my abilities. It was the most uncomfortable experience I’ve ever had on the job. Normally, I’d be able to put aside these feelings to get the job done, but… I mean, what do you do when you bare witness to a murder? How can you not  _ feel _ something?

 

Everyone was crying, or screaming, and for so long, I expected to hear sirens. (Those didn’t come for a while.) My hands kept shaking. I kept forgetting that time was passing, while my feet felt frozen to the ground – and then someone would shove past me, or I’d hear some broken wail in the crowd and I would remember. I’d come back.

 

I’d crawled up the broken steps of City Hall to get a shot of the whole scene. So many of the steps to the building were cracked and shattered, and I could feel pieces of cement crumbling beneath my old tennis shoes as I made my way to the top – and it wasn’t until I’d made it there, crouched down on one knee, that I noticed it.

 

A piece of the bomb.

 

It was black, and at first I thought it was only part of the explosion – a charred piece of cement maybe. But when I took another look at it, I noticed something strange about it. Against the glow of the low light of the sky and the fire still burning at the point of impact, I saw it.

 

Embossed into the blackened metal was an insignia.

 

Slowly, I lowered the camera from my eyes, let it fall against my chest and reached out for the metal shard. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind, as the smooth texture of it came in contact with my skin, that this was part of the bomb that had just taken the lives of five. It was surreal, to hold something that for one moment had held such power.

 

The insignia looked, in many ways, like a crest. At the center was a lion, fangs bared, and from it, lines forming a halo were splayed. I brought the metal closer to my face, and as I did so, I noticed that just beneath the emblem was a small, capital letter Z.

 

Without even thinking, I pocketed it.

 

Now, I’m sitting here, a few miles away from the point of the blast, in the middle of the empty Riverside Park. It’s eerily quiet here. Overhead, birds pass. The dark river running along the park’s edge ripples. I can feel myself breathing, hear myself thinking. My ears are still ringing.

 

In my right hand, I weigh the piece. My thumb brushes over the insignia, and I wonder what it means. Could this just be scrap metal? Possibly. I’ve heard of people making bombs in other cities – not here in Riverdale, though. It’s too quiet here, if this park is any indication. That’s why the bombing last night was so jarring. Nothing ever happens in Riverdale,  _ the city with all the pep, _ or something like that. I’ve lived in Riverdale my entire life, and never has there ever been something quite like that.

 

_ Maybe this isn’t even anything, _ I think dejectedly. I put the piece down on the table, stare at it for a moment longer before tearing my eyes away.  _ Maybe it’s not really part of the bomb. Why did I take this in the first place? _

 

I almost leave it there. I stand up from the bench, pull my wool-collared suede jacket back on, and start to head back in the direction of the YMCA – but then I stop, letting the frustration circulate its way out of my bloodstream, and when I look back over my shoulder at it sitting there…

 

The blackness of the metal. The way it still smelled a little like gasoline and charcoal.

 

I walk back to the park bench, pick it back up, and with one quick look around to be sure no one is watching, I slide it back into my pocket and leave in silence. It’s not particularly heavy, which makes me feel like I’m harboring something dark.

 

The walk back to the Y isn’t really that far. Maybe an hour. Still, It feels longer tonight because the dark starts to settle in quicker than I’d accounted for, and the cigarette butts and empty beer cans in the streets remind me of where I am. This neighborhood gets loud at night. There are groups of people gathered together on every corner, selling pills and smoking joints. Some of them try to call out to me – “Hey, kid” – but I just keep my head down; to be perfectly honest, the whole scene all feels a little too close to home.

 

“Jughead.”

 

I freeze, and just like that, my whole body tenses. I don’t even have to look to know. The sound of my name in  _ his _ mouth makes a memory flash in my mind – not a good one. This memory, red, is more of a feeling than a scene. 

 

The smell of alcohol on my father’s breath. The sound of my parents screaming at one another while Jellybean and I hid in our bedroom closet.

 

“Hey, Jug,” I hear the voice call again. “Don’t ignore me… Please.”

 

Against my better judgement, I turn around. As much as I want to, I can’t bring myself to run. I knew I shouldn’t have come around here, and in a way, it’s almost like I was asking for this. (I can’t tell if some internal subconscious feeling wanted to see him again or not, but right now, all I feel is regret.)

 

Bogus.

 

When I look up from the pavement, my eyes meet the gaze of a man with warm brown eyes. His shoulders are hunched, and I’m surprised that his usual five o’clock shadow is nowhere to be found. He’s clean shaven, and his usually patchy complexion seems smoother. His cheeks look full, and he fills out his old leather jacket. A cigarette smokes at his lips.

 

I don’t remember the last time I saw him look so good.

 

“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize my own boy come to visit me?” he asks, and grits his teeth.

 

I don’t say anything. I can’t decide what to do with my hands, and I’m too aware of it, so eventually I just stick them in my pockets.

 

“Jug.” He reaches a hand out to me, grabs my shoulder. He sounds a bit like he’s been drinking, but I can’t tell for sure. (Probably.) “You  _ did _ come to visit, didn’t you?”

 

My head shakes, and finally, I find my voice. “Not this time, Pop.”

 

He laughs. “Shoulda known. Man, you kids growin’ up fast. You been keepin’ on?”

 

I nod. “Doing okay.”

 

He nods back. “Good, that’s really good to hear.” He pauses, takes the cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out on the sole of his boot. “You know… I been meaning to call you. ‘Cept I couldn’t find a number. Didn’t know where you been stayin’ these days.”

 

“At Archies,” I say instinctively, because I know if I mention Archie he won’t worry. (It’s sad to think that I still care if he worries about me, and how I wish he wouldn’t... but also how I really, really wish that he would.)

 

“Good,” he nods again, then takes a deep breath. “Jug, what I been meaning to call you about – recently, I’ve been trying to get cleaned up. I got a good job, pays good, and I been fixing up the place... It looks, uh, pretty bitchin’, if I do say so myself.” He laughs at himself then, and I can’t help it when I smile a little too. Dad’s laugh was always that way, and Mom said mine was the same. I can’t remember the last time I really laughed.

 

“I want you guys to come home,” he says finally. “You, and your mom and Jellybean.” I try not to feel depressed at this; he’s said this same phrase so many times over the past few years that it’s lost its meaning. But, something in the way he looks at me – the way he looks, completely – makes me wonder. Maybe he really is turning a new leaf. Maybe I could come home, or at least Mom and Jellybean could.

 

A knot twists in my stomach.

 

I miss the feeling of belonging.

 

“Anyway,” Dad starts again, running a hand through his hair. I can tell he’s grasping at straws here, and my heart sinks a little. I make sure not to let it show in my expression – I’ve gotten good at that. “I’d really like it if you could find it in your heart to go out to dinner with your old man soon. I know you been busy with your… uh, photography, and whatnot.”

 

“Photojournalism,” I correct him, and when he meets my eyes again, I know that he can tell I’m caving.

 

“Yeah,  _ photojournalism _ – potato, pot- _ ah _ -to.” He cheeses at me, and I can’t help it. I’m smiling too. 

 

“Alright,” I nod. My chest feels tight. I guess this is what mustering up the last shred of hope you’ve got in your whole body must feel like. “We can go for burgers. Thursday, five o’clock.”

 

Dad beams.

 

“Five o’clock. You got it kiddo.” He reaches over, claps me on the shoulder, shakes me. It reminds me of when I was little. “I’m buyin’.”

 

I shake my head. “Can’t argue with that.”

 

His hand falls and he nods, then starts to turn around. “I’m glad I caught you, Jug. Good to see you – really good.”

 

I don’t say anything, just turn back around and raise a hand over my shoulder, waving. For the first time in a long time, I feel… Well, I don’t know.

 

Like things might not be so bad. Like there’s still a chance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_ Snap. _

 

With every picture I take of those grieving at the vigil, I feel my heart hardening.  _ You’re profiting from their pain, _ I think.  _ But someone has to tell their story. _

 

I wander aimlessly. In my pocket, I have the piece of the bomb that I’d snagged; after taking a handful of photos, I start approaching people to inquire about the insignia. No one seems to know what it is, or what it means – which isn’t good, and it isn’t bad. On one hand, at least I’m not a cheese weasel for not recognizing the symbol, but on the other hand, I have no leads. Nobody seems to know anything. 

 

Irritation creeps in slowly but surely, and as the sun finally starts to set, I decide I should take some more photos while the natural light is still working with me.

 

With my eye through the lens of my camera, and without warning – I see her.

 

She’s alone, placing a small bouquet of daisies amongst the slew of other flowers and memorial gifts decorating the broken steps of City Hall. When she stands, she brushes her ponytail over her shoulder. She fits in with everyone else here, wearing bell bottoms and a plain, red and white striped t-shirt; a pair of hexagonal sunglasses hangs from her neckline. Her brow is furrowed, eyes a sad blue. Two glassy oceans.

 

Slowly, I lower the camera from my eyes. 

 

She’s older now, not the girl I’d last seen in high school. She stands straighter, taller. Her ponytail still curls the same way, twisting round and round at the nape of her neck.

 

She’s still that same kind of beautiful, though. Looking at her now, my chest pangs.

 

_ Bets. _

 

And then, by some miracle, she turns her head. Looks around, momentarily watching the crowd, and then her eyes land on me. I watch as her lips part, and then as it flashes in her eyes: recognition.

 

From across the crowd, I see her mouth form a word. 

 

_ Juggie. _

 

I don’t wait. I don’t stall, I don’t freeze, I just let my body move on its own. I head straight through the crowd, head right for her, and then she heads for me. With every step closer, I can see the corners of her lips turning slowly upward.

 

“Betty,” I say finally. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken her name out loud.

 

Her ponytail bounces with every step, and when she stops right in front of me, hands on her hips, mouth now grinning wide, she elbows me in the side.

 

“Wow, Jughead! I can’t believe it’s you,” she says brightly, looking me up and down. “What are you doing here?”

 

I shrug, a little lost for words but trying not to show it. I slide my hat flatter on my head, very aware that I’m being sized up and, again, I’m never sure what to do with my awkward hands.

 

“Just my job,” I joke, motioning to the camera hanging from my neck, “so I don’t know how long I can stay and chat... I’m technically on the clock.”

 

Betty laughs, and everywhere the bells ring.

 

“You haven’t changed a bit, Juggie.”

 

I wish I could say the same for the girl standing in front of me – no, the woman. She seems self-assured, and strong. Betty was a dream girl in high school, don’t get me wrong… But for a long time, I guess that’s all she felt like. A dream. But right here, the Betty I see today feels real. There’s something in her eyes that reminds me how much time has really passed, and even though we grew up together, I never really knew her.

 

“How have you been?” I ask. “Archie mentions you sometimes…”

 

“Ah, Archie. I don’t see much of him anymore,” she admits. “To be honest, I don’t see much of anybody these days. I’m still going to college, but now that it’s summer I’ve been working full-time at the paper.”

 

I stop. “Wait, the Riverdale Tribune?”

 

“No,” she shakes her head, “the Times.”

 

“Ah,” I grin, glancing down at my feet so she can’t see the absolute judgement in my eyes. “That explains why I don’t see you…  _ That _ paper won’t buy my photos.”

 

“Why not?” Betty quirks her head and her ponytail bounces.

 

I shrug, looking back up. “The stuff I take is documentary. They like to cover…  _ safe _ things.”

 

“Conservative, you mean,” she fires back, raising her eyebrows, and laughs tightly. “Trust me, I know. I’m only working there because–”

 

“Look, Betty, it’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself–”

 

“I’m just trying to get my foot in the door,” she finishes. “And they were willing to show me the ropes.”

 

_ That’s understandable, _ I think, and at least I can respect the fact that she  _ knows _ .

 

The wind blows past us, and behind her, the candles on the stairs flicker. My ears feel warm, and I can’t help knowing that it’s not because of the summer heat.

 

Discreetly, I slip my hand in my back pocket, trying to feel how much change I’ve got on me.

 

I clear my throat. “You, uh, wouldn’t happen to be busy tonight. You know, after…”

 

Betty folds her arms across her chest, tucks one boot behind the other. “Wanna get milkshakes at Pop’s? For old time’s sake?”

 

And then, something happens. My heart pinches, creeps up into my throat – and for the first time in a long time, I laugh.

 

“Betty Cooper, you’re a mindreader.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Ronnie’s not  _ that _ awful, Juggie.”

 

I scoff, leaning away from her in the booth. “I don’t know how you can say that with a straight face, Bets. That girl was high-strung, like, to the max.”

 

Betty laughs, sipping her vanilla shake through the red and white swirled straw. “She’s high-strung, and a little overbearing, but she’s caposhi. And she’s my roommate, so I have to love her.”

 

“Roommate is  _ not _ synonymous with family, Cooper.”

 

“She picks up after herself,” Betty says, looking out the window. The neon sign from the overhang glows against her skin. “She’s a surprisingly good cook. And say what you will about her, at least she’s not phony.”

 

I sigh, conceding. “Well, could be worse, I guess... You could be living with Cheryl Blossom.”

 

Betty snorts. “Yeah, that’s rich. A Cooper and a Blossom living under one roof.” Then, suddenly, her expression softens – diminishes. There’s something in the way her lips, usually quirked into some unintentional smile, turn downward at the corners. The way her eyebrows pull together in the middle, just enough to see that she’s noticeably bothered.

 

“What is it?” I ask, and as soon as I do, I wonder if I’m overstepping, over-asking. I haven’t seen Betty in years. Do I have any right to her problems? I never thought of Betty being anything but an open book, but something happens when you grow up. Your heart changes, hardens. You start to close up.

 

I think about the beach. I think about how simple everything was – and how now, I feel so detached from the kid I once was.

 

When Betty’s eyes find mine, something in them tells me she might understand that sentiment.

 

“It’s just… Jason’s death. My sister and Jason were together, despite what our parents wanted. Polly risked everything for that kind of love, and I always admired it… But that dream of hers, of starting a family with Jason… It’s all over now.”

 

My heart sinks. Death is the one thing in this world that can truly burn a dream.

 

Sitting in front of me, I can see Betty sinking into the world that lives inside her. She probably doesn’t realize the wetness building in her eyes. I want to reach out to her, but I can’t. So instead, I try it with words. 

 

“I’m… sorry,” I try. “That must be so hard for her. And for you. Believe me, I saw how terrible it was. The… the bomb went off, and it was like the world stopped turning. Like time stopped.”

 

Suddenly, her eyes flash. She blinks, quells the tears – and plants her palms firmly on the tabletop. “Wait – you were  _ there? _ ”

 

I nod. “I was getting photos of the rally for the Tribune when it happened.”

 

“You didn’t get hurt, did you?” she spouts, leaning forward toward me. “You’re alright?”

 

_ I tell her I was at the rally, and the first thing she asks is if I got hurt, _ I think, dumbfounded. I’m suddenly thankful that the burning at the back of my neck doesn’t spread to my cheeks.

 

“No, I’m fine,” I say, offering a sideways smile and holding up my hands. I turn them, front to back. “See? Still kicking – life’s allegorical cockroach.”

 

Betty smiles emphatically. My sense of humor isn’t for everyone.

 

“I’m glad,” she says anyway, and I can tell she means it. “On a very surface level, if anything had happened to you, it would mean we wouldn’t be here at Pop’s tonight, drinking milkshakes and talking about the best and brightest of our graduating class.”

 

I smirk. “I see you use the term ‘best and brightest’ loosely.”

 

Grinning, she kicks me under the table, and I find myself laughing again.

 

“Anyway,” I start again, then fish into my left pocket for  _ the thing _ . “As a fellow journalist – albeit, one working for the Times–” (cue Betty kicking me again) “–I thought you might be interested in seeing  _ this. _ ” And with that, I pull out the charred piece of metal and slide it across the table to her.

 

At first, she doesn’t touch it. She stares at it, perhaps trying to decipher exactly what it is. Then she reaches out, traces the outlines of it with her fingertips; harsh edges, raw and sharp, a crude juxtaposition to the milky white of her skin. She lifts it, taking it into her hands gently as though she might break it, and when she flips it over, something sparks in her gaze.

 

Under her breath, Betty asks: “What is this?”

 

“I found it at the scene, right after the explosion… I think it’s part of the bomb.”

 

She rubs the symbol with her thumb, careful as she does. “Juggie...” she starts, but trails off. When she looks up, meeting my eyes again, she bites her lip.

 

I blank. “What?”

 

Slowly, she unhooks her teeth from her lower lip, looks back down at the object in her hands, and lets out a short breath.

 

“It’s just… I’ve seen this symbol before.”

 

My breath catches in my throat.

 

“You… you recognize it?” I ask, and in my tone of voice, I can tell the excitement is palpable. She looks up at me as I lean forward, sitting higher in the booth as I pull one foot up to my seat. “Wow, I can’t believe… do you know how many people I asked, and none of them knew what it was!” I’m grinning wide now, anticipation building in my stomach. “So, what is it?”

 

Betty is quiet for a moment, deciding. And then, she says: “It’s all over the old china in my house. It’s… printed on boxes in our basement… On vases, chairs. I’ve seen this symbol all my life.”

 

My eyes go wide. “Is it your family crest, or something?”

 

“No, that’s not it,” she says definitively, brows furrowed. “Well, that’s what I thought it was, but seeing it printed on a piece of the bomb... I’m not so sure.”

 

I wait, trying to reel myself back as she tries to figure it out. I can see the mental calculations crossing her face, fixing deep into her features as one hand covers her cheek.

 

When she looks up, a look of warning is upon her face. Her hand lowers. “I can’t be sure if it’s what this means, but… When I saw Polly yesterday to bring her the news about Jason, she said there was some kind of “secret cult” here.”

 

I raise an eyebrow. “In Riverdale? Get real.”

 

“That’s what she said.”

 

“Well, does she know what the group does?” I ask again, and even though I feel like I’m questioning her ten ways to Sunday, I can’t help it. There’s a desire that I hold in me to uncover the truth, no matter what the cost – and now, it’s unapologetically making itself known.

 

Betty sighs. “She didn’t say. I don’t think she knows – she’d have told me if she did.”

 

“A cult sounds too crazy to believe,” I state, leaning back now with my chin pressed between my thumb and forefinger, contemplating aloud. “An organization, though. A  _ society. _ Now  _ that _ , I could believe. The adults in this town are shady as all get-out.”

 

“You can say that again,” Betty says, and I can tell she’s almost relieved not to be talking about Polly directly anymore. “She also said that the cult – organization, society, whatever – was after her and Jason, and she didn’t know why.”

 

“Do you think…” I start, trailing off, lost in thought.

 

“Do I think that  _ they _ could have been behind the bomb?” she asks, filling in the blanks I’d left behind. “Do I think that  _ they _ could have been the reason Jason Blossom and the others are dead?” I look to her, and what I find in her eyes is sharp. Serious. “I’d be willing to  _ bet  _ on it.”

 

I watch the way Betty starts drinking her milkshake like it’s a challenge, and how just talking about all this is getting her fired up. This is the kind of reporting I can tell she wishes she were doing; she wants the hard-hitters, the stories about what’s important, and not the kind of work she’s doing at the Riverdale Times. I watch her, the way she starts tapping her fingers on the table, looking over my shoulder with parted lips, lost in her mind.

 

“Betty,” I start, and she looks up. “There’s a reason we met tonight. There’s a reason you knew about the insignia, a reason that Polly told you about that undercover group in Riverdale.”

 

“And what’s that?”

 

“Because,” I say quietly, folding my arms across on the table and hunching forward, “we were meant to  _ solve _ this. We can find out who was behind the bomb.”

 

Her eyes light up.

 

“Do you mean… you want to work as a team? You want  _ my _ help?”

 

“You’re the reason I’ve got this much,” I say sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. “If you’d be willing to work with me…”

 

Without hesitation, Betty bangs her fist passionately on the table, and even though a few people sitting in the diner shoot her dirty looks over their shoulder, she doesn’t seem to mind. 

 

“Let’s do it,” she says, and as the words leave her lips, her mouth cracks into a broad smile.

 

And just like that, Betty Cooper bursts her way back into my life, pulls me out of the background, and gives me at least one good reason to wake up tomorrow.

 

After a few minutes, the waitress walks up and hands us the bill. Betty goes to grab it, but I’m just a little too quick; still, her hand brushes mine. (I pretend not to notice.)

 

“Jughead,” she starts, but I shake my head.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her firmly, pulling a few dollars out of my back pocket and tucking them in with the check. I leave some change on the table and stand, waiting for her to grab her things before heading to the front counter.

 

“You didn’t have to get mine,” Betty says, quiet. She laces her fingers together and tucks them underneath her chin as a little smile spreads on her lips. “I owe you.”

 

“It’s casual,” I lie. (I’ve gotten pretty inconspicuous about lying, especially when it comes to money. I mean, when you’re squatting at the YMCA, you get pretty good at what I like to call  _ fibbing your way through life _ .)

 

Betty rolls her eyes, shaking her head, but I can tell she’s not really mad.

 

As we leave Pop’s, Betty holds the door for me.

 

“And they say chivalry is dead,” I deadpan, and she laughs.

 

“So,” she says, straightening the hem of her shirt as she lets the door shut behind me, “when can we meet up again? I’m free most evenings...”

 

“Tomorrow, same time and place?” I ask.

 

Betty skips a little, the same sweet smile splayed on her lips. “Sounds perfect,” she sings, and at once I think,  _ she’s like a bird. _

 

“You’ll be alright getting home?” I ask, not because I really want to know in detail  _ how, _ but I just want to make sure that she’d feel comfortable walking home so late. Depending on where you live in this city, it can take a while to get around – and depending on where you have to get through to make it home, it can get a little hairy.

 

“I’ll make it fine,” she assures me. “You?”

 

Mentally, I check the time it’ll take me to get back to the Y, and if I’ll make it on time. I might have to run, but I’m fairly certain that I’ll make it before closing.

 

“Yeah, I’ll make it,” I say, offering a little smile. (I think I smiled more today than I have in forever. My cheeks hurt.)

 

Betty’s footsteps slow, and before starting off in the direction of wherever home is for her nowadays, she turns back to face me and extends a hand.

 

“Night, partner,” she cheeses.

 

I take her hand in mine. Hers feels delicate, and I’m careful not to shake her hand too hard or hold too tightly. Something about Betty will always resonate with gentleness in my mind. (Read: in my heart.)

 

She lets go, and then I do, and then she’s waving over her shoulder at me as she starts for State Street with some trademark Riverdale Pep in her step. 

 

I watch her for as long as I can before I turn the opposite direction, breaking out into a sprint, thinking about the way the gold flecks in her watery blue eyes reflected off the moonlight.

 

_ Two glassy oceans, _ I think softly.  _ Maybe that beach isn’t so far away after all. _


	4. Color My World

_2:03 AM._

  
  
I stare at the ceiling of my room, laying flat on my back, unable to sleep. For the past couple of hours, I’ve been suffering through so many different thoughts about what Jughead and I talked about earlier at Pop’s, about what Polly had said, and about Jason Blossom.

  
The insignia that was on the bomb fragment matching the insignia that I’d grown up thinking was my family crest. The idea that there could be some type of organization that’s semi-cult-like in Riverdale.

  
The evidence pointing at my parents being connected to the bomb incident that killed Jason Blossom.

  
I put a pillow over my face, closing my eyes tightly. Images of growing up, playing with mom and dad, camping in the backyard with Polly, graduating from high school and taking family pictures pops into my head. My _parents_ and all the happy memories that I have of them run through my mind like a movie.

  
Sure, things have been tense ever since Polly found out she was pregnant. Maybe they didn’t handle the situation all too well. But that didn’t mean that they were _murderers_. They were my parents – my loving, supportive, kind parents.

  
I roll over in bed and sigh. The only way to find out if they are connected to the bombing is to ask them myself.

 

* * *

 

  
The next morning, I get dressed in my favorite bell bottom jeans and a t-shirt and pull my hair back into a pony tail to keep it out of my face. I check the mirror to make sure I look good enough for mom not to say anything about my appearance, and then I head out to my car with my purse over my shoulder, ready for some answers.

  
The drive back to my parents house doesn’t take long, but it feels like it does. As I round the corner and see the house come into view, my stomach starts doing somersaults at what I might find here today.

  
I park my car beside my father’s station wagon, and walk up the small pathway to the front door. I open the door and step in, calling out, “Mom! Dad!”

  
“Betty?” Mom asks, coming around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron as she comes into view. “I didn’t know you were coming home today.”

  
I leave my shoes by the door and smile at her in greeting. “I just felt like stopping by to say hi,” I reply innocently, following her into the dining room. Dad’s seated with the Riverdale Times in front of him, the cover story the very one I’d crumpled in anger at Polly’s house.

  
‘FREAK ACCIDENT LEAVES BLOSSOM FAMILY SHATTERED,’ it reads in big, bold letters. I resist the urge to tear it away from my father’s gaze and tell him that it’s garbage, not news. But I refrain and take a seat at the table across from him.

  
“You know, they found something at the scene of the bomb,” I mention casually, and Dad folds the paper down so he can see my over the top of it, his eyebrow raised in a questioning manner. “A shard of the bomb. It had some type of marking or logo on it.”

  
“Hm, interesting,” he says, though his tone sounds bored. “Though I did hear that it was an accident, so it’s hardly anyone’s fault that the building had faulty wiring.”

  
“It wasn’t faulty wiring,” I tell him. “It was a _bomb_.”

  
“That’s just what they believed it was at first,” Dad replies casually, putting the paper back up to go back to reading. “They found that it was the building’s faulty wiring that caused the explosion. Not an actual bomb. Come on now, Betty—“ he pauses to let out a light laugh— “use your head. Who would plant a bomb in _Riverdale_?”

  
Mom appears from the kitchen and sets a coffee cup in front of me. “Honey, I know you want to be a big-time journalist, but those kind of things just don’t happen around here,” she says, giving me a sympathetic look. “It was an accident. Very tragic.”

  
I look from my mom to my dad, completely dumbfounded by their reactions. They might as well have wrote that garbage in the newspaper – everything that comes out of their mouths are lies.

  
“The bomb shard had our family crest on it,” I say, and Dad sets his paper down this time to look at me, and Mom stops and turns to look at me. I try to read their expressions, but they both don’t look phased at all. “You know, that insignia we have on like, everything in this house? It was on the bomb!”

  
Dad folds his hands together and looks at me over the bridge of his nose. “Betty, that isn’t our family crest,” he says matter of fact. “They are old heirlooms handed down over generations from all the families that have lived in Riverdale for years. I’m sure you would find that same brand in the Blossom’s house, too.”

  
“Oh honey, that’s the logo from a company that used to be in Riverdale,” Mom adds. “Your great grandfather helped work for them, which is why we have so many antiques with that brand on it.”

  
It doesn’t make sense. Why would that company (that no longer even exists?) have a branded bomb that goes off at an anti-war rally. What about what Polly had heard from Jason, about some organization in Riverdale that was after him?

  
“Oh, I must have just been mistaken,” I say, and they both are more than happy to drop the subject. Mom brings out a big pancake breakfast, and as soon as I finish eating, I say my goodbyes and head out the door.

  
_I have to tell Jughead_ , is my first thought as I get into my car. Despite having learned not much, I feel uncomfortable about the way my parents talked about the bombing, in general.

  
And I’m not trying to point my fingers at them, but at this point, they look really suspicious. The only way to really find out is to piece everything together and prove my parents innocence in the whole bombing incident.

  
Or prove that my parents had something to do with the bombing incident.

 

* * *

  
I spend the rest of my afternoon at home, working on another review for the Times. When 5 o’clock rolls around, I get up and grab my purse off my bed, heading for the door to go meet Jughead at Pop’s.

  
“Hey, where you heading off to?” Veronica asks, standing in front of the fridge.

  
“Pop’s,” I reply, slipping my shoes on.

  
“Gravy,” she says in response, letting the fridge door shut. She saunters over to grab her shoes and slips them on. “I’m joining. I’m starved and we have like, nothing to eat here.”  


“That’s true, we need to hit up the grocery store,” I agree and we head out together. I hope that Jughead won’t mind, but he knows Veronica from high school, too, so it shouldn’t be an issue…

  
Veronica switches my tapes in my car and we listen to the Carpenters for the short drive to Pop’s diner. We only make it through two full songs before we arrive and I park the car off to the side. We spot Archie’s truck parked a few spaces down.

  
“Archiekins is here?” Veronica asks, turning to me with a raised eyebrow.

  
“S’pose so,” I reply, getting out of my car. “I was coming here to meet Jughead, though.”

  
“ _Jughead Jones_?” she practically shouts in surprise. “You’re meeting with Jughead? Are you like, going around with each other? Betty! How could you not tell me—“

  
“No, no!” I cut her off, waving my hands a bit in front of me. “It’s not like that. We’re just hanging out as friends, and… he’s helping me with something. We’re looking into that bombing that killed Jason Blossom.”

  
“Wow, for the paper?” Veronica links her arm with mine as we start toward the doors. “I read the article this morning. I thought it was an accident, not a bomb.”

  
“That’s a cover-up,” I tell her and her eyes widen in surprise. “Jughead and I are investigating it together.”

  
As we step inside, the smell of greasy burgers and ice cream fills our senses. We both breathe in deeply and smile, both equally starving and ready for a burger and fries and shake.

  
I spot Jughead’s signature beanie a few tables away from the door, and across from him is Archie. They’re both laughing, and Archie throws a fry at Jughead, which he attempts to deflect but ends up getting smacked in the nose with, anyway.

  
“Juggie!” I call out and his eyes look up, landing on me. I detect the smallest of smiles on his face for a moment, then it’s gone and he’s back to his stoic expression like usual.

  
Veronica and I head to their table, and I sit down next to Jughead while Archie gets up to allow Veronica to slide in on his side. “Hi Archiekins,” she greets him, setting her purse down beside her. “Hey Jughead. It’s been a while.”

  
“It has,” he affirms with a nod of his head. His eyes wander over to me and I shrug, offering a non-spoken apology for bringing her along. He doesn’t seem bothered though. Besides, he brought Archie so it kind of worked out perfectly.

  
“Hey, Betty,” Archie says with a broad smile. “You been doin’ okay?”

  
I smile and nod, “Yeah, doing okay. You?”

  
“Doing okay,” he replies and his eyes move between me and Jughead, a slow smirk forming on his lips. “So I heard you and Jughead have been going around?”

  
Jughead sighs, exasperated. “He’s been on about this for twenty minutes already,” he warns me and I laugh.

  
“It’s okay, Veronica was asking me, too,” I inform him and he smiles a little. “No, we’re just investigating together. We met up by chance at the memorial yesterday and agreed to work together since the Times isn’t exactly writing the truth about the incident.”

  
“Oh, you mean the bomb?” Archie asks and we both nod. “Yeah, that’s terrible, man. I hear Moose is in the hospital with some sick burns.”

  
“And Jason Blossom died,” Veronica added, her eyes looking over at me sadly. Whenever we bring up Jason, it brings up Polly, who refuses to come home or to live with us at the apartment. “How’s Polly? I heard you two talking on the phone earlier.”

  
“She’s… hanging in there.”

  
She’s not sleeping, hardly eating, barely functioning. When we talked on the phone earlier, I’d tried desperately to get her to come stay with Veronica and I, if only so she wouldn’t be alone during one of the most terrible times in her entire life. She seems to only be keeping on for the baby, but I can hear it in her voice. If she wasn’t pregnant, she would have given up the moment she heard of his death.

  
The waitress brings over milkshakes for the four of us – Jughead and Veronica get chocolate, Archie gets vanilla, and I get strawberry – and then takes our food order.

  
“You know, I saw something weird the other day,” Veronica says, turning her attention to look at Jughead and I.

  
“What?” I ask, finding myself leaning forward over the table in anticipation.

  
“I saw Jughead’s dad talking with your mom, Betty,” she informs us, and both Jughead and I exchange a glance at each other. “It looked pretty serious.”

  
“Serious how?” Jughead asks and she shrugs, taking a drink of her milkshake.

 

“I don’t know, Betty’s mom looked really frazzled.” She thinks for a moment and then adds, “and Jughead, your dad was sort of yelling. Not yelling, I guess, because I didn’t hear what he was saying. But he looked really mad and was talking with that angry face that parents do, you know?”

  
I turn to face Jughead in the booth. “What could our parents possibly have to discuss?”

  
Jughead shakes his head, “I have no idea.”

  
“Jughead… I talked to my parents today about the bombing, because you know the symbol that you showed me on the bomb fragment?” He nods. “I mean, it’s literally all over my house. So I thought maybe my parents had something to do with it. And they… acted really weird when I asked. They don’t think it was even a bomb, but they were like, trying to deter me away from the conversation.”

  
“Wait, Betty,” Archie interjects, “your parents could have something to do with that bomb?”

  
“Archiekins, shush!” Veronica tells him quickly.

  
“What if your dad has some sort of connection, too?” I suggest, though I can tell the thought hurts him and I wish I could take it back when I see his grimace. “Or maybe, my parents do and your dad was confronting my mom about it. Did any of his guys get hurt at the rally?”

  
Jughead shrugs, “I don’t know, he didn’t say anything about it when I saw him after.”

  
I sigh, back to a dead end. My eyes linger on Jughead, even as Archie changes the topic to something else, and I watch him stir his milkshake. His eyebrows are pulled together, deep in thought, and his mouth is set in a slight frown, and there are worried creases around his eyes. For a moment, I wish that I could reach out and smooth them out – to help Jughead to return to his old, happy self from when we were younger.

  
Jughead looks at me and catches me staring at him. I don’t look away, though, and instead offer a small smile, one of understanding and apology. One that he returns, that lifts my heart just a little bit from the pit that it’s been in ever since that bomb went off.

  
Someone else that understands how shaken my world is, how everything is falling apart because of one instant – one explosion that changed everything.

  
“What do you guys say?” Archie says, his voice breaking our eye contact and bringing us back to the conversation.

  
“What?” we both ask in unison.

  
Veronica laughs, her shoulder bumping with Archie’s. “See? I think they are going around together and are just hiding it from us.”

  
Archie smiles, his eyes going between me and Jughead rapidly. “We’re not,” I say and his eyes narrow, watching me very closely. Then, he sits back and nods.

  
“They’re not,” Archie agrees. “Jughead would have told me if he was interested in her – or anyone. He’s never had a crush on anyone.”

  
I look at him, and Jughead rolls his eyes, ignoring Archie and going back to his food.

  
“That’s not true,” I say, “Jughead’s one true love is food. We already know that.”

  
Jughead smiles and Archie and Veronica laugh and agree. We all eat our burgers and fries, laughing and talking about old school memories that we’d forgotten about. The food fights in the cafeteria, being Riverdale Vixens under Cheryl Blossom’s intense regime, and of course, Archie’s sudden interest in music after his little crush on the old music teacher.

  
“You know what would be fun?” Archie asks as the waitress picks up our empty plates and clears the table for us. “Roller-skating.”

  
“Oh my gosh, Archie! That sounds like so much fun!” Veronica exclaims, her bright eyes turning to look at Jughead and I across the table. “We should totally go! I haven’t roller-skated in years.”

  
“Me either,” I agree. “That does sound fun. I’m in.”

  
Jughead looks a little nervous about it, but we eventually talk him into it. We pay our bills and leave Pop’s together. I offer to drive, since Archie’s truck wouldn’t fit all of us too well, and while my car is small, the truck only has three seats.

  
We all cram into my yellow car and I drive us to the roller skating rink the next town over. Riverdale doesn’t have a skating rink, so we make due with the one the next town over – which is fine since it also has an arcade.

  
“What happened to that Beatles album I let you borrow?” Archie asks, leaning his face forward between Veronica and I from the backseat. I glance at him in the rearview mirror and also catch sight of Jughead staring out the window with that frown still on his lips.

 

“I was listening to it up until yesterday,” I reply, pulling it out from the center console to hand it to him. “I really like them. You want it back?”

  
“Nah,” he replies with a smile, looking proud. “You keep it. I’m glad you liked it.”

  
When we arrive at Roller-Rama, we have to park in the back since it’s so crowded, though I’m not sure why we wouldn’t expect it to be on a Saturday afternoon. The four of us head inside to rent skates and spend the rest of our day carefree and happy – despite all the troubles that have been popping up as of late.

  
Veronica and I rent our roller skates first, while Archie and Jughead decide whether to play arcade games first or get their skates.

  
With my skates in my hand, I start to follow Veronica to benches to put them on. But I turn back around to say something to Jughead, watching as Archie hands over cash for both his and Jughead’s skates.

  
“Hey, Juggie,” I say, and his head snaps up to look at me, his expression unreadable. “Remember this song?”

  
He listens for a moment and a slow smile spreads across his features. He laughs a little, remembering the time in high school when we danced to this very song at one of the dances. It had been a bad memory for me at first – one where Archie had a date to the dance and I’d been heartbroken. But Jughead had danced with me for a song, out of pity, but it had still changed my entire night from a sad memory to a happy one.

  
Good Vibrations by The Beach Boys. A classic.

  
Archie hands Jughead his skates and we head to the benches together, and I laugh, recalling the memory. “You know, that was one of the best dances,” I smile at him. “Thanks for the dance that night. You really came through, Juggie.”

  
Jughead shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it a dance. We were just jumping around in a circle.”

  
“Still,” I laugh. “Whenever I hear this song, I think about that. You’re a good friend, Jughead.”

  
I smile at him and bump his shoulder with mine before bending over my leg to tie my skates up. Veronica is the first one done and she gets up and glides around the carpet, getting the hang of it in no time. I finish lacing mine up next and Veronica takes my hands and helps me up.

  
I’m shaky at first, since it’s been years since I’ve skated. But after a few minutes, I get the hang of it again, too. Archie’s practically a pro and wastes no time getting out onto the rink, skating around as fast as he can and letting the wind blow through his hair. Veronica waves as she gets out onto the rink, too, trying to catch up with Archie while weaving through the crowds of people.

  
Jughead stands slowly and immediately grips the half wall that’s around the entire rink.

  
“You okay?” I ask, waiting for a break in the crowd of people to get out onto the rink.

  
“Peachy keen,” Jughead mutters sarcastically. He waves me forward, though, and I offer a small wave before jumping out into the rink.

  
I skate around groups of friends, weaving through the crowds. Up ahead, Archie and Veronica are racing around each other, and Veronica is going backwards while Archie holds her hands, keeping her from running into someone else.

  
“Where’s Jughead?” Archie asks when I finally catch up to them.

  
Looking around for his signature beanie, I spot him not far from the entrance to the rink, still holding onto the wall. His skates slip up every few strides, and he almost falls but clings to the wall, regaining his balance before moving forward slowly again.

  
“Betty, could you do me a solid and help him a little?” Archie asks, seeing him struggling. I nod, waving to them before skating over to where Jughead is slowly but surely trudging along.

  
“Hey,” I say, slowing down to match his pace when I reach his side.

  
“Hey,” he replies, his voice gruff as he struggles not to fall down.

  
Without another word, I hold out my hand for him, my fingers out stretched. He glances at my hand, then up at me, as if pondering the move. I can tell that he doesn’t want to accept my help – mostly because he’s the kind of guy that doesn’t get offered help a lot. So before he can say no or feel awkward about it, I reach down and take one of his hands from the wall.

  
As I lace our fingers together, I can’t help but notice how his hands are just slightly bigger than mine, but they somehow fit perfectly together. His skin is warm to my cold touch.

  
“I won’t let you fall,” I assure him, pulling him slightly closer to me so I can link our arms together, offering more stability. “I promise.”

  
I notice a slight pink tinge at the top of his ears and I smile. He doesn’t say anything, but he allows me to link our arms together.

  
Not wanting to make him too nervous being away from the wall, I let him pick our pace and just match it. We go slowly, but every time he slips up, I keep a tight hold on him, keeping him steady. I notice every time he almost falls, or thinks he’s about to fall, he takes in a deep breath and holds it until he’s steady again before letting it all out in a slight huff.

  
I notice how his warm hands start to get a little sweaty, but I don’t mind.

  
“How’s it going Jughead?” Veronica asks as she and Archie lap us for at least the twentieth time.

  
Jughead gives her a flat expression and before he can really reply, she’s already half way around the rink again, worlds away from us.

  
“I’m fine hugging the wall if you want to go around,” he says, his eyes slowly turning toward me.

  
“It’s okay. I’m happy right here, Juggie.”

  
I don’t really know how to explain it, but after I say it and Jughead looks away with a light pink on his cheeks, I start to feeling butterflies erupt in the pit of my stomach.

  
Before I can think too hard on that, Jughead’s skates slip up from under him. There’s not enough time for me to steady him, and he falls, directly down on his back like those black and white movies where a guy slips on a banana peel. And since our arms were linked and our fingers were intertwined, he takes me down with him.

  
I land half on top of him, while my elbow tries to catch him and slams right down on the hardwood floor of the rink.

  
“Ow!” I cry out, releasing Jughead’s hand to hold my elbow. I can already feel the bruise coming on.

  
“Are you okay?” he asks frantically, looking at my elbow and then up at my face.

  
“I’m okay,” I reply, rubbing my elbow. “Are you okay?”

  
He nods, and I get up before reaching my hands down to help him up. He almost falls again, forward this time, and nearly pushes me over in his frantic attempt to steady himself. I catch both of his arms and his hands grip my shoulders tightly, regaining his balance.

  
“Let’s go sit down at a table for a few minutes,” he says and I nod in agreement, holding his hand again as we go at our snail pace and make our way off of the rink.

  
We sit down next to each other and he rubs his lower back while I gingerly poke at the bruise forming on my elbow.

  
“I’m… sorry,” he says quietly, his eyes locked on my elbow as he says it. I let my arm fall back to my side and smile.

  
“It’s okay, Juggie,” I reply. “If anything, I should be sorry. I promised you that I wouldn’t let you fall…”

  
He opens his mouth to reply but Archie and Veronica approach our table and ask if we’re both okay.

  
“We saw you guys wipeout,” Archie explains. “Looked pretty bad, honestly.”

  
“Like, really bad,” Veronica adds, sitting down next to me.

  
“Gee, thanks guys,” Jughead mutters as Archie offers to get everyone a soda to drink.

  
“We’re both fine,” I tell Veronica, who looks over my elbow and gasps. “What?”

  
“Your elbow is totally swollen, Betty!” she says, gently touching it. I wince, pulling my arm away from her. “Should we go see a doctor or something? What if it’s broken?”

  
Jughead looks at me, his eyes nervous.

  
“I’m fine, really,” I say. “It’s not broken, Veronica. I wouldn’t be able to move it if that was the case.”

  
Archie brings us all sodas and we manage to change the topic from our brutal wipeout to music. Archie’s been working hard on writing new songs to try and play for a record company this upcoming weekend. Veronica offers to help style him to help him get a better first impression.

  
“You’re really okay,” Jughead whispers to me while Archie and Veronica veer off onto their own topic, “right?”

  
I smile, “I’m fine. It’s just a little bruise, Juggie. No biggie.”

  
He smiles, too, our eyes lingering on each other for a beat longer than normal. As I turn back to my soda, I find myself smiling as a blush creeps over my cheeks.

  
And this is the craziest part of all: All I want to do is hold Jughead’s warm hand again.


End file.
